


a most consecrated, consummated, corporal communion

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale hasn't told Crowley how good he is in like 6 hours that Cannot Stand, Aziraphale plays guardian angel for gay men and always has, Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Praise Kink, Religion Kink maybe, ref to Top Az & Bottom Crowley, uhh a Smidge of Blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: Domesticity + Crowley being super into the lingering feeling of Aziraphale after their night together = Aziraphale goes to his knees & worships. Crowley accepts his offering & just tries to hold himself together, really.





	a most consecrated, consummated, corporal communion

Aziraphale finds Crowley in their kitchen.

It’s Crowley’s kitchen, technically, Crowley’s flat and all, but both of them have recently begun to think of it as ‘theirs’ with a jubilance born of the melding of lives finally given liberty to do so: the kitchen was stocked properly for the first time in history, for Aziraphale, and Crowley has since made attempts at cooking, for Aziraphale. Real cooking, because there’s no replacing the pleasure to be found in the results of human engineering when it comes to food, according to the angel, and he wants to do it right, for Aziraphale.

(And then he orders takeout. For Aziraphale. But he’s _trying_ , the dear, and it’s early days.)

It remains a rare sight, him in the kitchen, and rarer still that Crowley is not here to cook. He’s eating— _snacking_ , even, would be more accurate—and it isn’t as if he doesn't eat, he _does_ , but not as a habit, and typically not on his own like this. Aziraphale is at a loss to place the last time he saw Crowley enjoying himself in such a way.

The top compartment of the refrigerator is open, the freezer cooling the room in a pleasant contrast to the morning heat. A box sits open carelessly on the counter top, and Aziraphale realizes what Crowley’s gotten into: they two of them on a recent outing had picked up the most mouthwatering mochi, a decadent ice cream confection, salted caramel and apple center.

Crowley slouches sideways against the nearby counter, hip cocked, looking rather a treat himself, holding one mochi in his hand bitten open to reveal the pink middle. Flour, for coating the mochi to keep it from sticking to its packaging, dyes the ends of his fingers a powdery white. The counter top the packaging currently rests on did not escape unmarked, either. Oh, he looks a mess, evidence of his indulgence around him and not having bothered making himself ready for the day, his coal-black satin pajamas still slightly creased from sleep and hair unkempt, lit up like a roaring flare. His eyes are unshaded, half-closed as he savors his sweet.

Aziraphale watches as a stream of melted cream runs down his thumb to his wrist. His mouth feels especially wet as Crowley ducks his head, licks the whole long trail up with a tongue just a flick too stretched out to be human.

“That will—” Aziraphale starts, but his voice comes out in a squeak. He clears his throat, tries again. “Those are going to melt if you leave the box sitting out, dear.”

He wraps his robe tighter around himself. His slippers pad softly in the morning stillness as he makes his way over to join him.

A laugh startles out of Crowley. “I’no,” he slurs, popping the last piece into his mouth and sucking sweetness off his pinky, a grin slinking across his face. “M’done. Want one?”

“Oh. Oh, I would. Thank you.” 

The first thing Aziraphale does when he comes close is raise a hand and slowly drag fingers through Crowley’s ridiculous morning hair. He stands at his side and takes good, deep pulls, fluffing it up even more at the top of his head and easing a groan low out of Crowley’s throat. Now that they have this, now that his affection has been _unleashed_ , as it were, he finds himself wanting nothing more than to touch Crowley whenever he possibly can. To soak in the feel and the taste and the smell of him like the sweet relief of finding an oasis in a desert, after so many millennia parched. 

“Hhn. Good mornin’, angel,” Crowley says, tilting back into his touch.

“Most assuredly.” Aziraphale leans his head against Crowley’s, warm skin to warm—cooler by degrees, but pleasantly so—skin. The perfume of Crowley’s hair blends with the flavor of ice cream in the air: their kitchen smells of fresh apples. 

Crowley twists his hips, somehow still managing to lounge sideways along the counter and stay touching Aziraphale at the same time as he plucks a mochi out of the package and raises it to Aziraphale’s lips. The cold sings to his skin and he opens his mouth, catches at Crowley’s fingers a bit as he presses inside. The ice cream center melts on his tongue and Aziraphale can’t help drawing his eyes closed. He hums, and hears the fondness of Crowley’s answering laugh through a haze. 

The texture, even softened as it is from sitting out, is the perfect mixture of viscosity and elasticity. He relishes in the sweet give of the mochi as he sucks on it, releasing the cream within, the sugar not overpowering but smoothing the thick silk of the caramel, balancing well with the bite of the apple just a side of tart. He chews it slowly, taking his time as always, swallowing and shivering at the soothing chill in his throat. 

Crowley gazes at him openly, and Aziraphale smiles, the casual affection of the moment bubbling up in him.

He dabs at his mouth primly with a napkin pulled out of the air, vanishing it when he’s done with a thought. 

“Delightful.” With his loose grip in Crowley's hair he bends him closer, and drops a sticky kiss to his temple. He moves a little behind him so he can wrap an arm around him. “How many did you have?”

Crowley sighs. “Ehh, three? I think three. Got in a mood.”

“ _My_. A veritable feast.”

“Eat much more and it’ll show.”

“It doesn’t take much,” Aziraphale says quietly, palm pressing just slight against his soft abdomen through his top. 

“Mm, no, it doesn’t.” They’re not entirely talking about food.

Lazily, Crowley nuzzles him, before bending to put the package back in the freezer. 

Aziraphale holds Crowley to him with the hand at his middle. The whole lanky stretch of him is a wonder of pressure along his front, Aziraphale’s softness yielding to Crowley’s angles in a way that makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter with peace. 

He is a being of Love, and now he has a love all his own. 

With his free hand he reaches and takes the hand Crowley had used to feed him, sticky and white, and brings the fingers to his mouth, humming at the stretch of one and then two, taking pleasure in the sweet-salt taste of him.

“Angel.”

“Mmhh?” Aziraphale closes his eyes, lets Crowley’s fingers sit on his tongue. He keeps holding his hand, rubs his thumb idly over his knuckles.

“Angel with an oral fixation.”

Aziraphale sucks as Crowley drags the digits out, and they leave his mouth with a crude _pop_. He licks his lips, tasting Crowley and cream, like warm sour apple. Crowley tilts his face up, his eyes wide and shining. He noses at Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“Oh, my tastes have, let’s say, narrowed to a _you_ fixation,” Aziraphale says. Crowley groans and rolls his eyes but the next second he’s twisting in his arms, fluid and serpentine and pulling him in for a kiss, wet fingers to his cheek. Aziraphale accepts him blissfully, hands to the small of his back, licking into him with a giggle. They melt against each other, sweet and yielding as the shared mochi, sugar painting their lips. 

A hand comes to his collar, tugging, and Aziraphale gives a tug of his own in answer, fingers clutching at Crowley’s back through slippery silk. 

Crowley flinches as the push of the kiss bumps him against the counter’s edge.

With a start, Aziraphale pulls away. He’d barely made contact. “What…?”

“It’s nothing! Just, you know…” 

His eyes shift away, and oh, the _look_ on his face… Aziraphale blinks in realization, and an embarrassed heat to match Crowley creeps over him. 

They’d made love for hours. Because they’d shared dinner together, here in Crowley’s flat, sat at the table, properly; because they’d done the dishes together, after, side-by-side in the slow, tedious, human way; because Crowley had bought him _flowers_ , floribunda roses, a delightful white and pink and apricot bouquet he’d held out, so pleased with himself, cheeks as red as his hair; because _“I would stay just like this the whole night gone, oh, my darling,” Aziraphale had babbled, seated so deep inside him, delirious with it, and Crowley had pushed back and rasped, “Why don’t you, then?”_

Because. Well. Because they could.

Aziraphale needs only expect to be comfortable, afterwards, and he is. It was so terribly selfish of him to not take care of Crowley too, as he usually does; he realizes with shame that he had simply forgotten. It’s only that they were so undone by the end of things.

“Crowley! You’re still so affected, oh, my dear, why haven’t you done anything, miracled it away? First thing, you could’ve,” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “Oh, here, let me put you to rights—” 

“Leave it.”

A brief pulse of power surrounds Crowley, keeping Aziraphale at bay. The glow that had started to bloom in him sizzles out, and he frowns. “But, I… you’re hurt.”

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. 

“I know we lost track of the time, but it must have been a dozen hours I was inside you...” A flush blooms even deeper over Crowley and Aziraphale trails off, fond. Crowley won’t meet his eyes, though, and a thought comes to him. Things being new as they are, they maybe haven’t been entirely thorough in their discussions. He winces. “Is it—er. Ah. I can’t make sex a-about punishment, Crowley, I couldn’t bear it.”

“It—mnn, n- _no_ , farthest from, it’s not th,” Crowley wrestles control over his tongue. Works his timbre back to something reasonable, firm. “I am not hurt, angel, don’t start.” 

Aziraphale cups his jaw in both hands and looks into his eyes, searching. Catalogs with care the color on his cheeks, the fierce protest in his eyes. So taken aback at the suggestion of a removal of the discomfort. “Explain it to me?”

A sigh, a few false starts, a wetting of lips, and Crowley says, “Didn’t any of your other… er, dalliances—”

“Lovers, my dear boy; there’s no need for such a tone.” 

“Right.” Crowley gives a half-shrug, clears his throat on a grumble. “Didn’t any of _those men_ talk about uh. Feeling it, after. With-with you.” 

Aziraphale balks at the suggestion. “No! The time of the deed alone never came close, first of all, and-and that aside I’ll have you know I was thought to be most considerate and accommodating when seeing to their comfort. I always, well,” he pauses and allows himself to take a little pride in a job well done, tilting his chin primly. “I always made it right for them. As was the kind thing. Oh, poor dears, some of them… such guilt. Such a burden they carried. It, it was, oh, it was important to show—for it to feel _good_ for them, I made sure the act in itself never was a thing of pain, Crowley, it was so…”

The sudden emotion chokes him. A hand flutters to his chest, as if to contain it. 

“Oh, _angel_.” Crowley gives a short, frustrated groan. Aziraphale can feel his sharp spike of sympathy, of Love. “Al-alright, right, well, what about your comfort, hm? Human lovers can’t magic it away; mortals—’specially mortals dealing with all _that_ , the, the self-flagellation and whatnot—can be rough, yeah?”

Of course Aziraphale had seen to himself just the same. He shakes his head. His hands trail downward, coming to rest at Crowley’s hips. He’s clearly missed something important, here, and he means to find out what.

“Do you wish me to be rough with you?” he asks, tentatively, when Crowley doesn’t speak.

“N _ot that_ , I said.” Crowley pulls a face like his words are being dragged from him. He won’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “How can someone _so_ experienced with pleasure be _so_ clueless. I—y-you know when you have a really, really good meal, and you’re so full with it you _ache_? Like you’ve told me, not, urm, not in an upset way, but just… just _s_ stuffed. Satisfied?” 

“I… I’m familiar. Yes.”

“Really good look on you, by the way,” Crowley says, all in one breath. Then, quieter: “S’like that. When you didn’t take it away I could’ve myself, ‘course I could’ve, but I _like_ this. Only just felt it and I know it’s brilliant, I… I just feel… known.” His eyes fall closed briefly, hands clenching at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You took care of me so well, my angel, and I’m not ready to give up feeling you. Greedy me.” 

He leans in and nips at Aziraphale, captures his lip with a hint of tongue. “Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. Just like that, Crowley’s words, the touch of him, and there is a tight, burning heat blooming in his chest. 

“You always really miracled it better for them? S- _sss_ o I’m the only one who’s gotten t-to feel this _s_ , then? Really, truly, _feel_ you?” Crowley’s whisper is full of wonder, near reverent. He speaks as if Aziraphale has bestowed upon him something Holy.

Which, in a way, he has, Aziraphale thinks, a bit cheeky, and a little more than a bit wonderstruck himself. He’s given Crowley _him_. 

“I,” Aziraphale says, catching up. “I suppose so, oh. Oh, is it really so nice to you as all that?”

Crowley grins, face lit up as when he’s finally gotten through to Aziraphale (or finally gotten his way, which suits Aziraphale just fine) and hisses at him, “Yes _sss_ ,” and Aziraphale chases his tongue, the heat in him sparking, catching flame, coming to life in a long rolling blaze roaring as he kisses him deep, swept up in it. 

With great control Aziraphale guides the pace, tilts Crowley with a soft touch under his chin and kisses him slow, unhurried and indulgent; he _savors_ Crowley, chasing the sugary sweetness of the mochi and the fire of him, the fresh, smokey taste, like the finest crème brûlée, satisfying like thirst quenched by cocoa, perfect-temperature. Crowley moans into him, sucks at his tongue and clutches at his elbow, pulls himself closer to Aziraphale and gives himself over. 

As they part, Crowley looks the very essence of ‘cat with the cream.’ A snake coiled on his favorite sunning rock. It is a look Aziraphale has dedicated the rest of eternity to making sure of its appearance as often as possible. 

Aziraphale pets hands along the rosy skin of Crowley’s neck. He watches the column of his throat bob, and leans to kiss the soft indent at the base, earning him a delicate sigh, a tightening of Crowley’s fingers against him. When he pulls back he is struck by the vision of him: the ridiculous ruffle of his hair, his beautiful eyes with hooded lids, lashes lax and mouth red and swollen, standing, swaying, at peace in their kitchen. Surrounded by his home that he’d opened up to Aziraphale readily, without complaint, nay, with _eagerness_. The soft overhead light makes everything just a bit blurred around the edges, sacrosanct, sublime in its mundanity. The full cupboards, the cookbooks on the shelves sit as a testament to his love. 

The idea of it, of Crowley still feeling Aziraphale inside and _clinging_ to that feeling, refusing to let it go even for his own physical comfort because it matters so much to him, what he and Aziraphale shared—the idea that the comfort he takes in _that_ is far greater makes Aziraphale feel, illogically, as if can’t breathe. 

Aziraphale goes to his knees.

“Wh—” 

His robe neatly pools out from him. The cool tile of the floor through his sleep pants grounds him. He lays his hands on Crowley’s bare feet, and bends his head. A shake goes through Crowley, but he holds quiet as Aziraphale basks, draws in his presence as a blade of grass does the sun. His hands travel slowly up under the fine silk of Crowley’s pajamas and he curves his fingers around slim ankles, relishing in the taut skin, the delicate ridge of his malleoli, the beat of his pulse. 

Aziraphale feels suddenly too big for his human vessel, contained only through habit and will, blurry and weighted at the edges. There is something of grace in the act, here at Crowley’s feet in such an everyday, common space, something so ordinary and unexceptional as a _kitchen_ , a room not meant for _kneeling_ , that the air feels thin, stretched out. He wants to—he wants to thank Crowley, for granting him the honor and trust of knowing him, spiritually, physically; he wants to serve him, care for him, he wants to gather towels and perfume and to _wash his feet_ —

He feels—oh, he can’t quite place it at first; it’s not as familiar as it once was. He searches himself, landing on the realization with a gasp.

He feels Blessed.

Overcome, Aziraphale breathes out, voice hitching as he says, “I find, I… oh, my dear, I find myself desperate for you in my mouth, just now. I-if you’d be so kind.”

From high above him, Crowley hisses out through clenched teeth. 

Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley’s narrow thigh, the cool satin a balm on his heated skin. Bent in supplication, keeling at his feet. It might look like prayer, to Crowley. Perhaps it is. 

He was a being due deference too, once.

After a heavy moment, Aziraphale waiting patiently, Crowley asks, awe and nerves dueling, “But—here? Like-like this—with you—hnn, it’s, right _here_?” His voice gives delightfully. “Can’t be comfortable, this.”

“I like this,” Aziraphale echoes, almost before Crowley has stopped talking.

The floor of their kitchen is cold, and hard. At Crowley’s feet is exactly where Aziraphale wants to be.

A sharp inhale. “Yes _s_ ,” Crowley starts. Aziraphale feels him tremble, feels breath rush through him once, twice. “Wh, uh. How would you like me, do you-you want me to…”

Aziraphale can smell the musk of him through his pants, close as he is: warm and heady, but soft, still. Only thrice has Aziraphale known Crowley in this way—yes, he’s counting; he looks forward to losing track, like he has with kisses—and Crowley knows his tastes so well already. He’s holding himself back, wanting to give Aziraphale this choice.

“Mm, oh.” Aziraphale purses his lips, considering. “Oh, I would feel you swell for myself, I think.”

“Uhhgh,” Crowley says, and nods.

With no short supply of eagerness for what comes next, Aziraphale takes hold of Crowley’s waistband and draws his pants down, uncovering him to his ankles. He takes in the sight of long, lean legs and the sharp lines of his hips, the vulnerable space between: the prize of him, resting soft, in a bloom of red at the cradle of his thighs. 

Aziraphale lets himself stare, let’s Crowley _see_ how he’s wanted. Clenches his hands into fists. Bites his lip wantonly. Until Crowley squirms, self-conscious and impatient, and whines out his name. 

“This _ss_ body really wants to be hard right now, angel, if you _pleasse_.” 

His own interest isn’t something Aziraphale needs to turn off or on; he prefers to let it happen naturally. But he’s made the decision not to be physically aroused just now, so he won’t be. He’s dialed it down just as Crowley has. In Crowley’s case, it won’t be such for much longer, though. 

“Don’t fret so, my dear, I’ve only allowed myself a moment of admiration. I’ll have you in a jiffy.”

Crowley huffs a laugh, teetering on hysterical. “‘Jiffy,’” he whispers. “Hot.”

“Hush.”

Aziraphale looks up. The depth of Love Crowley emits now that, well, things are finally out in the open is ever-present, and never quite so heavily felt as when their eyes catch. The amber of his serpentine eyes burns a warm, familiar heat, wraps around Aziraphale and coils at his heart.

Not looking away from Crowley, he wets his lips, deliberately, relaxes his jaw and let’s his mouth fall open slightly, his tongue visible, inviting. His eyebrows draw up in plea.

“You…” Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale gives only the slightest dip of his head. _Yes._ Crowley must seize initiative in this. Aziraphale has made himself an offering. It is up to Crowley to take it, accept it. Deliver himself unto Aziraphale so that they might share in it. 

“What are you playing a… ah.”

One hint of an impish smile from Aziraphale and Crowley’s lips press closed. His pupils bloom wide and his own mouth falls open as he realizes what Aziraphale wants from him. He takes in Aziraphale at his feet. His calm, lax lack of arousal. Longing, yet unmoved by physical concerns. As if kneeling at an altar, awaiting judgment, or favor. 

With tender hands he reaches down, cups Aziraphale jaw; he hooks one thumb in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“For me?”

“Mm,” Aziraphale whispers, sucks at his thumb. “Ostensibly. For us.” He _feels_ his heart skip.

“H-hungry as ever, right, hey. ‘If you’d be so kind,’” Crowley says hazily. “You ask s _s_ so prettily, angel.” The whole of him is trembling, tiny little tremors as he takes himself in hand, guides himself between Aziraphale’s lips so, so gently. Hissing at the first contact of his soft cock against Aziraphale’s tongue like cool rain on asphalt in summer heat, sending up steam.

Feet under him, hands on his knees, Aziraphale sits peacefully. He keeps his face lax, lets Crowley stretch his mouth, push past his lips, settle the mouthwatering weight on his tongue. A soft noise comes up in him unbidden, high in his throat, and he shakes himself with a sigh, breathes through his nose. The scent, oh, the feel, the taste—the sweetness of him, the heavy velvet warmth and the fragile beauty in the holding, just about breaks Aziraphale before it even starts.

With heartrending softness Crowley grazes knuckles over Aziraphale’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, pets just around where they’re joined. 

Aziraphale gives a barely-there suck. 

Crowley’s legs twitch wide, managing a haphazard sprawl even upright. The first scrumptious drop of him hits Aziraphale’s tongue as he starts to swell and his hips give a single, sharp jerk. Aziraphale sucks harder to capture the taste, grunting as the thrust tries to throw him back. 

“Sorry! Nglk, s _sss_ orry, shit.”

One of the many new discoveries they’ve made of late is that Aziraphale’s hands fit nicely along Crowley’s hips. He strokes his fingers over the sharp bone there. Hums, coos at him as well as he can, a soothe as much as tease. 

Sure enough, the sound sends a vibration through Crowley and he shudders with it, twitching faintly. Wrestling for control. He’d spent so long waiting, so long patiently yearning for Aziraphale’s affections, so long offering his own love. It can be a struggle for him, now that it’s returned in kind. The pure, undiluted love, _mutual_ love; all for the sharing. He seems to not know what to _do_ with the enormity of it. 

Currently what Aziraphale wants Crowley to do is, frankly, enjoy himself. He scratches finely manicured nails lightly at his hips.

Crowley grabs the counter behind him, murmurs and swears in a language lost to time.

Delighted, Aziraphale hums again, sucking around the growing girth of him, gathering wetness in his mouth and pressing firm with his tongue. 

The profanity repeats. Crowley trembles.

When Aziraphale shifts up to cup the back of his thighs for better leverage, better control, palms resting just above the knee, Crowley seizes the opportunity and snaps his fingers. In the split-second it takes for Aziraphale to settle back down a large foam pillow manifests underneath him. Ornamental border of gold, tassels at the edges a touch of the extravagant to match Crowley’s decor; pale blue tartan body.

Aziraphale smiles around him and Crowley bucks, just as expected now that Aziraphale has hands on him. “S- _s_ so _ss_ ore, s’good,” he chokes, hips twitching, as Aziraphale grips his thighs tighter, fingers indenting, massaging at the hard muscle. 

The pillow is lavish, a truly splendid cushion. His knees sink right in. It is a thing of luxury, made for comfort. Made for him. Aziraphale thinks of prayer mats, closes his eyes, and lays worship to Crowley with his tongue.

Already the pull at his jaw starts, the wholly unique, deliciously vulgar sensation of the stretch. He starts with small, gentle swallows, little licks around the head of him, taking his time, feeling Crowley fill his mouth in glorious leisure. And such a rare and precious gift, to have such trust. To be granted such a boon, to be permitted to hold this delicate part of him. 

An indecently _wet_ sound fills the air as Aziraphale goes nearly to his lap in one long motion, moaning at the full, whole hard length of him. He sits, basking. Eyes closed, world narrowed to _Crowley_ , the pants and little hitching mews above him the finest choir. The warmth and the wet and the perfect bulk of him thick in his mouth and the taste of him on his tongue a match to any delicacy to ever cross his palate. 

“S _s_ ee the appeal?” Crowley asks, breathless, voice rough. “You—you had me, had me _well_ , s- _so_ well, ‘Ziraphale, I don’t know how to tell you—” 

Aziraphale bobs, works his throat, his tongue dragging along the length all the way up. He suckles at the tip, laps at the nerves just below the head, before taking him back down. The stretch of Crowley is nearly overwhelming. 

The noises Crowley makes sing out, tiny little whimpers as he squirms, losing himself quickly in the well of Aziraphale’s mouth. Every movement, every press of fingers into his thighs, every flick of tongue seems to send Crowley fuller, deeper. 

“I can feel you, hours and hours of you and your _perfect_ fat cock, uhhg,” Crowley says, voice shredded. “A-and now, your _mouth_ —”

There is the sound of his marble counter top cracking as Crowley tenses, followed immediately by an irritable snap of fingers and the intimate spark of a miracle. Aziraphale can just picture those long, lean fingers, the strength they possess. Holding on for balance just a shade too tight as Crowley loses a bit of demonic control. All because of him. 

Aziraphale moans around him. Crowley chokes on a laugh.

The air is thick with their sweat and Aziraphale breathes it in, the scent of sex mingling with the everyday kitchen smells: lavender and lemon and soap and coffee. The honey and fresh bread picked up from the market just yesterday. The apple of the ice cream, lingering. The vase of roses on the table.

A hand comes, careful and soft, to brush at Aziraphale’s hairline, card through the damp curls there. 

“Eighteen,” Crowley rasps.

Aziraphale laps at him, edging up and down in little, subtle increments as he moves slowly off of his cock. He lingers, presses his tongue flat against him and drops a wet, open kiss to the head, stealing some of the taste for himself before he replaces his mouth with his hand, jerking languorously at him, swiping a thumb over the slit, gathering the damp on his fingers. His free hand clutches at Crowley’s hip, steadying Crowley as he hisses at the new sensations. 

It takes a moment for Aziraphale to remember that he has a question. “Hmm?”

“‘A dozen,’ no, eighteen hours you bu—m- _made love_ to-to me, angel, I—” Crowley swallows the rest. 

“ _Oh_! Did I really?” he asks, quite rhetorically. With a noise of delighted awe, Aziraphale gives him a slow, firm stroke from tip to base and back, curling his hand in thanks for his loving choice of words, in recognition of the difficulty he can have saying them. Demons are not made for tenderness. He struggles, sometimes, but he makes himself the exception, as always. Crowley is the most tender person Aziraphale knows. Aziraphale is always pleased to reward him when he lends it a voice. 

His thigh trembles under Aziraphale’s hand. “I don’t know how I kept track, couldn’t think with you in me, but I… I just know. I remember every _sss_ second…”

Aziraphale stills, and holds him, just feeling the beating heat against his palm. He rises up on his knees. Crowley’s top is buttoned one moment, and the next it’s open wide as Aziraphale leans to place an open-mouthed kiss to the warm skin of Crowley’s stomach at the memory. Eighteen hours. (And never mind the foreplay.) He feels the fluttering under his lips, and breathes him in. Crowley is so thin, and he’d been so _full_. Visibly so. 

With a cry, Crowley’s hand seeks out his cock, overlapping Aziraphale and moving—

“Ah, ah,” Aziraphale chides, blinking out of it and taking Crowley’s hand from himself gently, lacing their fingers. “I’ll see to that, love.”

Crowley whines. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

“I’ll see to you,” he repeats. Steady, reassuring in his promise: _Accept this. You deserve this_. “And you’ll let me, won’t you?”

Eyes alight and lips bitten, swollen and ruddy to match his hair, Crowley says, a bit brokenly: “I’ll let you.”

Aziraphale brings their joined hands to his hair, joining Crowley’s other. Crowley keeps still. Palms resting at his crown like a benediction.

“There’s a good lad,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

Shaky, Crowley rolls his eyes. His feet twitch with nerves. 

No. Aziraphale catches his eyes. Makes sure Crowley won’t look away. “You’re so good,” he says. Puts every bit of reverence in it he can bear. “You’re being so good for me.”

And my, does Crowley’s cock _jerk_. 

_“Angel—_ ”

Blushing red as a beet, he is. Hair clinging soaked to his face. Eyes manic, almost entirely black, glossy, wet. His chest heaves. His cock stands long, flushed and dripping and colored dark, scrotum drawn tight underneath. 

Crowley’s hands clench reflexively in Aziraphale’s hair. “Angel, a-angel, can’t, I, Ahz _s_ ‘phale, _touch me_.”

Saliva pools in Aziraphale’s mouth and he closes his eyes, bending and kissing at the length of him, little licks to long, slow wet drags. He opens his mouth and takes him down, burying himself in the thatch of flaming hair, in the heady hint of brimstone. Pushes forward, further still, catches himself on a gag and swallows past it, focuses on the slick, heavy drag, spurred on by Crowley’s choked, shocked moan.

His nose touches the soft skin of his belly. He breathes in. Luxuriates at the way Crowley nudges at the back of his throat. 

Oh, how his jaw aches! It’s wondrous.

“ _You’re_ good, I’ve never known s _sss_ uch warmth as you, fit in you like—like a-a _h_ —” Crowley breaks off, shaking like teeth in a snowstorm. Tiny little thrusts at every pass of Aziraphale’s tongue curling around him. “Like a thing that fits bloody _well_ is what, fffuc’ _ss_ sake.”

Aziraphale moves over him in earnest. The sounds that fall from their joining are sloppy, obscene, echoing in him like a pulse and it makes him feel Holy, he realizes wildly; fervent loyalty, devotion, dedication of _purpose_ bursting from him at the act, at Crowley’s praise. 

“Crowley,” he says, pulling back to mouth at him, suckle at the head, lap up the moisture there, spread it down the length of him. Repeats his name like an obsecration. 

Crowley groans, tilts his head back. The long column of his throat shines. 

His thighs feel impossibly tight, tense.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, nosing lower. “Oh, Lord.” His voice is awe-struck, his throat hoarse from use (and isn’t that _exquisite_ ). The words, the meaning behind them, hold such weight, the profound glory and grace sitting heavy in his limbs. His eyes close as damp gathers at his lashes. 

Crowley’s hands spasm in his hair and he chokes, a tangle of “in—in vain, _shit_ ,“ falling out of him.

“Mm, no.” He bends his overheated face to Crowley’s skin, just allowing himself to breathe, gathering himself, before placing the fat flat of his tongue to a testis and licking, slow. He drops a sweet kiss to tender skin, feather-light. “Oh, no, my dove,” he says wetly. “I am giving _thanks_.” 

“S _say_ — _God_ —” Crowley makes a wounded sound. “Angel kneeling at a demon’s bollocks and praying—” 

“I am,” Aziraphale says, forcing calm into his shaking voice. “I am praying. That is exactly it.”

A whimper shudders out of Crowley, turns to a low growl, deep in his chest. A distinctly possessive sound. His cock twitches at the words, at the breath puffing hot against him like a brand, low at the base of him, just out of reach. 

“I would thank the Almighty Lord for bestowing you onto me, for placing me at the Gate.” Here the growl rises, almost hurt. Too much mention of Her, perhaps. Steady on. “The sweetest fruit is no match for, oh, the bounty of you,” Aziraphale whispers, and takes one of him into his mouth.

“Ah- _ng—an—_ angel— _Aziraphale_ —” 

Aziraphale digs his fingers in at Crowley’s thighs, stills the twitch of his hips. He brings a hand to cup him in his palm, and Crowley gives a little, punched-out noise, hands kneading deep in Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale sucks at him, rolls the fine skin in his hand, squeezing light, feeling the delicious give of it. It is such a soft weight; fragile, and precious. 

Another tug at his hair, a desperate noise, and Aziraphale leans back. Crowley’s cock drips further, turned a delightful purple. His stomach strains, visibly clenching, holding himself back. 

Aziraphale licks at the pearl blooming at the tip of his cock. 

“I—ha _a_ , I swear I’ll dis _ss_ corporate, right here, angel, I’ll do it, i-it’ll happen.”

“Shh, shh. Let me just…” He sighs. “Oh, Crowley. I believe,” Aziraphale begins, pausing for one long, wet lick. He can't resist. Crowley makes another glorious sound above him. “Oh, I believe I was given form so that I might meet you. Know you.” He sucks at the side of him, kisses at the head. “In this way. I am made for worship, and oh, my most cherished, I—” Crowley _keens_ at his endearments, and Aziraphale smiles against the skin at the base of him before continuing: “You are worthy, you are, you… you clever, kind, brilliant, beautiful creature. You opened your heart, your home to me—you brought me _flowers_ , Crowley,” he says. A whispered exclamation bursts from him joyfully. “Roses!”

Crowley swallows, shaky, and says, “Y-yeah, well, hardly the firs _s_.” So endearingly bashful. Aziraphale beams at him.

“Context, dear.”

When he strokes a hand up the back of him, Crowley’s breath hitches. Aziraphale runs a fingertip inward, deeper, across his rim. Still slightly puffed from the night before. All he does is press, gentle as a question, and Crowley heaves a great thunder of a breath, whining long and low. Gives one sharp thrust. Flutters against his touch. 

“Oh, I _must_ get you to have me this way sometime,” Aziraphale whispers, with no short amount of mischief. 

“Hhhns _sss_ ,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale keeps his finger to him, moves his free hand to the side, palm wide on his backside, cradling him. 

He looks up, soaks in the vision of him: the indent of his stomach, sweaty, heaving, ribs showing—forgetting to control his breathing, forgetting he _can_. Proud, elegant cock straining. Face a wrecked thing, damp with tracks. Eyes shut. His hair a fiery halo. 

“I need,” Crowley starts, breaks off. “I love you.”

“And I you: go on, now. I am so _proud_ to be yours, my dear, sweet, _good_ boy.”

Crowley cries out in a sob, a mangled rendition of _Aziraphale_ falling from his lips and a tremor running through his legs. 

The hands in his hair spread wide and _hold_ , fingers cradling, kneading deliberate, rhythmic, and instantly Aziraphale is on him, swallowing at his cock just past the head and not letting up, hand on his thigh and at the core of him sliding against sweat-slick skin. He drags his finger from him, adjusts his grip, needing both hands to hold Crowley as he finds himself at his crisis, finally, _finally_ —

Lean and taut as he is, Aziraphale can almost cup the whole of his backside in his palms and he _pulls_ at him, pulls Crowley onto him as a key to a lock, hanging on, squeezing with every thrust, sucking fiercely as the clenching release takes him. Spit dampens Aziraphale’s chin, clumsy with it. Crowley spends heat, thick, rich in its plenty, across his tongue. The luscious flood threatens to choke him and Aziraphale moans at the lascivious spark it lights in him. The messy, animal nature of it. Revels in every pulse, the sheer gluttonous satisfaction it brings. 

Hitching, broken sounds tumble from Crowley, little overwhelmed cries, as if amazed at his own capacity for pleasure. 

Aziraphale swallows him eagerly, _greedily_ —he clutches at him perhaps a tad roughly, hungrily, bobbing slow up and down his length, eking out further mewling gasps from Crowley and a few more weaker warm spills of him to coat his throat, fill him up.

All at once Crowley goes loose in his hands. Aziraphale has a sense he’s the reason Crowley’s still standing. 

Breathing heavily and quite uncoordinated, Crowley sloppily pets at his hair, just moving his hands and grasping where he lands, breathless, panting, “Angel, angel, angel.”

A soft, shattered sound catches in Aziraphale; The Love in Crowley’s voice, _oh_ —he nuzzles back down, driven by the need to seize, to capture everything he can of this, this moment, this feeling. He milks him for every drop, surrounded in the heavy scent and taste of him, a burnt and earthy musk, the feel of him slick and soft in his mouth filling him sweeter than the light of Heaven ever did.

And oh, does thinking such a thing make him shiver. How seditious. 

Hands grip hard at his hair just as he presses his nose to Crowley’s stomach— _oh, to stay here in your light_ , he thinks dizzily, _green pastures, still waters; I shall not want_ —and Crowley gives a long, high whimper. “Up,” Crowley says wetly, sounding far, far above him, “Angel, f- _fuck_ , you bea _sst,_ s _sss’_ enough, c’mon back to me.”

And Aziraphale does as he’s told, but slowly, dragging another noise out of Crowley, relishing every detail of him as he slips languorously from his mouth. He can’t help dropping a careful, feather of a kiss to the velvet-soft skin of him, so vulnerable in repose. 

There is another impatient pull at his hair, a prick of fingernails. 

As he pulls himself to standing, he takes Crowley’s pants with him, draws them up over his legs to his waist, unable to resist stroking fingers across one sharp hip bone with his free hand as he re-ties them with the other. The shirt, he leaves unbuttoned; he places a palm to his heart.

“Wh—eu _m_ ,” Crowley says, about as articulate as to be expected. He leans, a bit of a stumble in it, and drops a kiss to Aziraphale’s jaw, missing his mouth. 

Aziraphale smiles tenderly at him. Something base thrills up his spine as he shifts closer to Crowley and registers the ache in his knees, in his back, in his jaw. He rolls his shoulders and allows it to stay, settling into the dull pressure, the tightness in his human form strained just past its limits of comfort. Satisfying indeed. He smacks his lips just on the edge of saucy. It all goes rather topsy-turvy, doesn’t it? When love’s involved. What a marvel. This domestic life they’re making together. This love business. So very human. Love as a specificity, in a manner that is You, In All Ways, Forsaking All Others, and, _all the days of my life_. 

His hand falls and in his peripheral Crowley circles around him. Eyes on him. A knowing twitch of lips. Back to his restlessness, dampened by release only in the wobble to his movements (well, a different sort than the everyday wobble) and the lax flow of his limbs, the loose smile in his eyes as he moves, watching Aziraphale. As he always has. 

“Oh, sweetheart mine,” Aziraphale says, catching him easily by the back of the neck and stilling him, bringing him in close. “I adore you so.” 

Aziraphale watches patiently as Crowley stutters, eyes still damp and burning bright. Happy little lines crinkle at the corners as he scrunches his face up, resigning himself to nonverbal. He leans in to kiss him instead.

The taste of Crowley is _itself_ a toothsome treat, and, oh, add in any of the other senses, and other tastes, and it is… ambrosia. 

The lingering delicate rice cake of the mochi and the fresh bite of apple, the refreshing chill with the heat of their mouths, mingled with Crowley’s spend, is an exquisite brew indeed. Aziraphale licks into him, chasing the flavor, humming in pleasure. Crowley offers his own tongue up, and Aziraphale hums, savoring it as well, sucking at the thick tangle of it. 

All together it is the most scrumptious breakfast he’s had in a long while.

Crowley snickers, muffling his noises against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He kisses him, wet and sloppy, on his neck.

Oh. “I’ve said that out loud, haven’t I?”

“Mmhm,” Crowley murmurs hoarsely into his skin. He coils around him with a hiss, chasing the heat of his flush. “You didn’t lie, though.”

“Of course not. I’m an angel.”

“Yeah, very Breakfast of Angels, demon _spun-wh_ —hey!”

Aziraphale wraps both arms around Crowley at the waist, and lifts; he is giddy with it, sated and safe, lighthearted at a level only reached when one is precisely where one knows one should be. It is growing to be a familiar feeling, these days, but it continues to take his breath away just the same. Should he try to compare it, it feels much like the grace of God, in The Beginning: the all-encompassing certainly that comes from purpose, and the secure knowledge that you are loved, awash in light and warmth. All of that, yes, but—made tangible. All of that and _more_. 

Held here, in his embrace. 

Crowley yelps, joyful grin overtaking him in turn. His arms rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders, his hands going to Aziraphale’s hair, burying his fingers in his curls. His own hair sticks to his face, wet from exertion, his skin glowing. This close Aziraphale can make out the sunset ombré of his irises, the slits of his pupils narrowed intensely, alight with adoration. 

Nose to nose they sway. Crowley’s feet dangling, twin peals of laughter ringing, the scent of apples in the air.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I love all comments, great and small. 
> 
> Come say [hi](http://yolkinthejump.tumblr.com).


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